Lady Killer
by RoseLight
Summary: Two very different women vye for Korea's most eligiblemost pompous surgeon. Can his tentmates smooth the course of true love?


LADY KILLER

Charles Emerson Winchester III was attempting a meticulous grooming exercise, while dodging the good-natured taunts of his MASH-mates.

"Another embassy bash, Charles? Just remember to get home by midnight or your jeep will turn into a pumpkin."

"Pierce, you are a jealous cretin," Charles muttered, with a daub of aftershave.

"Miss Livingston, I presume, Doctor?" BJ Hunnicut joined in. "How many dates does that make?

Charles shrugged into his dress uniform jacket. "As long as there is no action here, Colonel Potter has no objection to my pursuing social interactions, which may, in fact, result in benefits to our own unit."

"Six, Beej." Hawkeye counted on his fingers. "I believe that barrel of bushwah translates to six enchanted evenings."

"Translates? Why, isn't that the profession of our dear Rosemary?"

"Miss Livingston," Charles said deliberately, "is the third cultural attaché at the embassy, and yes, she has an affinity for foreign tongues."

Hawkeye sighed. "Y'know, Charles, you look so happy tonight, I'm not even gonna try for that opening. Get the camera, Beej, our little boy is off to the prom."

"Gee, what do I havta do to get invited to the embassy?" Hunnicut whined.

'Too late for you two. It takes breeding." Charles sniffed and reached for his hat.

"And it's not just the embassy. Let's not forget those letters every week—the most intense correspondence since Barrett met Browning. Inches thick and wafting of lilac..."

"Pierce, have you been sniffing her stationery?"

Hunnicut tried to mollify the outraged major. "Relax, it's just a hobby. He's already smelled everything in the mess tent. He needed to expand his repertoire is all."

"Ah, lilacs…." Pierce swooned across his lumpy cot.

"Ragweeds, I bid you adieu."

xxxx

In his letters and tapes home, Charles had long been decrying his lack of civilized social life. His mother was concerned about his lack of suitable companions; his father saw the opportunity to inculcate the family name in the Orient. Through a series of complex social interactions, an invitation was proffered to the good doctor to the premier embassy ball in Seoul. "Not so elegant as the Tokyo embassy, of course," his mother wrote apologetically, "but close enough to avail yourself of some refining influence."

It was at this party that Charles was introduced to Rosemary Livingston. "Ah, Rosemary…that's for remembrance," he quoted and kissed her hand gallantly.

"Pray, Love, remember," she quoted the Shakespeare right back at him, and raising a pretty eyebrow, challenged him to a literary duel

"Rosemary is our third cultural attaché, a real asset," declared their host.

"Don't be too impressed with the title, Major," she warned modestly. "I'm just an overeducated American who missed the bus home."

"Your inconvenience, but my pleasure," he flirted. "Where is home?"

"Tokyo. My parents are missionaries, and I grew up there. When they got posted to Burma, I stayed on to finish my schooling. I majored in Eastern languages. It was suggested that I might be of service to my country by doing some translation in Seoul, advising on local culture, that sort of thing. And so, here I am." She smiled at him, opening her arms in invitation. They danced the rest of the night.

Tonight it was merely cocktails with the usual diplomatic crowd, local dignitaries, and a sprinkling of brass and politicians. Rosemary had been watching for him, and floated across the room straight into his arms.

Every time he made a tedious or treacherous drive to the city, Charles tried to convince himself that his feelings were merely a reaction to the war's deprivations, the lack of intellectual and cultural stimulation. But at the end of the road there was Rosemary, and all the doubts melted away under her shining eyes.

As they threaded through the crowd, Charles saw a familiar and unwelcome form lurking in the corner. The man recognized Charles, too, and began to walk over to the couple. Charles tried to shepherd Rosemary along, but the man had circled around and halted in front of them. But his eyes were not on Charles, but on his companion.

"Rosemary…" he drew her name out in long, silky syllables.

"Ambrose…" she replied, with a lift of her chin.

"Colonel Flagg," Charles stuck out his hand to intercept the man.

It was only then that Flagg bothered to acknowledge his presence. "Dr. Winchester, out of your scrubs, I see."

"Yes, and you're out of your element, I see. Did your invitation read 'black tie and decoder ring'?"

The body language needed no translation as Flagg shuffled himself to Rosemary's right, and Charles inserted himself smoothly between them. Just then, Colonel Baldwin, who had originally ordered Charles to the 4077, strode by, effectively slicing between the trio and herding Charles across the room.

"So, Chameleon," Flagg greeted her more casually.

Rosemary batted her eyelashes. "You think I'm a lizard lady, Ambrose?" She emphasized his name, knowing full well it would annoy him, and not caring.

"You're half right; you're no lady. I don't know where your orders are coming from, but hands off the 4077. It's mine," he threatened darkly.

Rosemary dropped her voice also, and leaned into his space. "Your precious MASH is in no danger from me," she assured him. "Not professionally. Winchester's not my target. In fact, I'm off-duty and Charles is—a pleasant interlude. Even assassins need a little affection occasionally, you know."

"And Ming Chow?"

She shrugged. "Even raving war lords need—"

"Was he your target?" Flagg inquired pointedly.

"Obviously I am not going to answer that. It's been ages since our paths crossed, Flagg. How did you recognize me?"

He ignored her direct question and his eyes grazed her up and down. "So this is what the well-dressed embassy assassin is wearing this season?"

"I prefer to think of myself as an aggressive environmentalist, ridding the world of pest and vermin. Admit it, Flagg, you're just still miffed about Kelso."

"Kelso was mine. I had orders to interrogate him."

"And I had orders to eradicate him. You never did thank me for all that paper work I saved you."

"Your doctor's heading back."

"Please—"assurance fled her. "Keep my secret?"

Flagg snorted. It was all in the family. There was no potential for serious commitment. As soon as "Rosemary" no longer needed an alibi, or got a new assignment, she would be gone. And he'd get a chuckle out of the notion of the tightly-wound surgeon in lust. If the situation changed, he could always revise his plan.

"Sorry, my dear," Charles put a protective arm across her shoulders. "Colonel Baldwin can be loquacious. I trust Flagg has been… disguised as a gentleman?"

"See you around the office, Kiddo," Flagg stalked away, ignoring the doctor.

"You are all right?" Charles asked her anxiously. "From across the room, it looked like a very intense conversation. How do you know …someone like Flagg?"

"Like a fly," she shivered. "He buzzes around the embassy. Gives me the creeps." She turned her face to Charles and smiled. "But I'm fine now."

"I'm glad. Baldwin was telling me about a local war lord, Ming Chow, who was murdered nearby a few days ago. I worry about you." And it was true. He had a sudden primitive urge to protect her from everything: war and germs and whining diplomats and spoiled foie gras and inferior productions of Hamlet and generals who would dance on her toes and wind and rain and the monsters under the bed and—just everything.

"You're sweet," she said, and meant it. "But the embassy security is fine. I heard about Ming Chow. The gossip is, he was dispatched...uh…in flagrante delicto…" she giggled.

"I wondered how a sweet, sheltered missionary's daughter would translate such sordid exploits," he teased.

"I can express that…situation…in several different languages," she proceeded to prove her expertise whispering phrases into his ear. "Major Winchester, you're blushing. Perhaps it is too warm in here. May I give you a tour of the garden? Embassy tours are just another function of the third cultural attaché. …" she led him professionally into the moonlight.

xxxxx

Of course, there was a complication. Her helicopter landed on the pad in a swirl of dust at 0920 hours.

"Theodosia Clothilde Benedict-Blanchard!" sputtered Winchester.

"Clothilde?" Hawkeye and BJ puzzled in unison.

Exasperated beyond all reason and vocabulary, Charles finally settled on the inane question, "Does your mother know where you are!"

"I've really broken curfew this time, Chas," she grinned.

"Benedict-Blanchard," Hawkeye mused. "Sounds familiar. Law firm?"

"Worse. Benedict is Mother's family, Blanchard is Father's."

"You're Benedict Blanchard Bank of Boston?"

"Heavens, no," she waved away his suggestion. "It's the Bahamas, now. Better weather, better tax shelters…"

"Satisfy my curiosity," BJ questioned. "You simply fly across the world to our little war zone—"

"Hmf. There was certainly nothing simple about it. It cost nearly a month's allowance to rent the copter, and to hire a pilot—my word, these war time prices are scandalous!"

"Uh-huh." Pierce was unimpressed. That's all the war effort needed—a whiney rich witch suffering from entitlement syndrome. "So what brings you to our little corner of the planet?"

"Not what, Silly. Who. And the Who is You," she draped herself across a mortified Charles. "I've finished everything I've always wanted to do in my life, so what else is left but to make it official and domesticate. Mumsie's already coordinating with Whitney's wedding expert, but I wanted to consult with you. When will you be released from this dreary servitude?"

"That's 'service'," Charles corrected. "And that's, well, difficult to predict. It depends on the war."

xxxxx

"Well, Chas, do tell," BJ and Hawkeye flanked the surgeon as he retreated to the Swamp.

"Yes, Chas, do tell-"

"Gentlemen—I fear I must confess I am here under, well, false colors. I am not-technically- a free agent. Theodosia has been my intended for some time."

"You've sure kept your unbridled passion a secret," Hawkeye observed.

"You're intended? Or your family's intended?" BJ asked.

"What difference does it make?" Charles sighed wearily. "I should've known you two couldn't appreciate or comprehend my dilemma. In families like ours, unions are arranged with regard to stability, position, character—"

"Stock, bonds—"

"Of course there are financial considerations."

"Charles, are we talking marriage or merger here?"

"Simple enough for you, Hunnicut."

"So you and Clo-til-da have been pledged from the cradle, eh?"

"Precisely. In fact—"

"In fact, that's the reason you're over here. You're more afraid of Mumsie than the Communists, right?" Pierce guessed.

"I was at an impasse. I thought perhaps getting away from the situation might clear my perceptions."

"You couldn't just winter in Palm Springs? You had to come to Korea?"

"I volunteered to demonstrate new surgical techniques at Tokyo General. Being banished to this cesspool was Col. Baldwin's brainstorm, in a fit of pique."

"Yeah, Charles, sounds like a classic case of over-compensation to me," tch-tched Hunnicut.

A devilish grin grew across Pierce's face. He slapped the forlorn Charles on the knee and declared, "Leave everything to us, Chuckles. We'll untangle you from the stocks and bonds of impending matrimony."

Hunnicut caught his partner's eye. "Yeah, we haven't pulled anything this grand in weeks," BJ reminded him. "We're suffering from Hijinks Withdrawal. If you don't let us, heaven only knows who our next innocent victim could be," he eyed the major meaningfully.

"C'mon, just think of us as Cupid's machine guns," Hawkeye pleaded persuasively. "You know you're not attracted to Silly Tilly. You know you don't want to do the dirty work yourself. Give us professionals a chance."

"Well…" Winchester's desperation could be gauged by the fact that he was actually considering their offer. "If my name could be kept out of any—"

"Great! Thanks, Charles, you won't regret this!" The two MASH-mates clapped him on the back as they clambered out of the Swamp, chortling.

xxxxx

Charles' complication flew off the copter pad at 1930 hours.

"Gentlemen, I don't know how to thank you. I also don't know what you've done…"

"Eh…you might not want to know, Charles."

"And you might not want to call us Gentlemen."

"And, you might not be welcome at the country club…for a few years…" Pierce warned.

"She's off to Bolivia," Hunnicut offered. "I'm sure she'll be happier there. I'm sure you'll be happier, with her there. It's sort of a win-win negotiation."

Ten days later, a letter in creamy vellum stationery arrived from Charles Emerson Winchester II, much to the dismay of Charles Emerson Winchester III. He held his breath and slit open the envelope.

"As regards your former relationship with TCBB…" it began. "Understand your mother is perturbed by the young lady's flighty disregard of long-standing arrangements. And although Mamie Benedict is your mother's dearest friend of schooldays, and an able bridge partner, I confess to being relieved at this satisfactory conclusion. Frankly, I always found the girl an insufferable twit. Financial and social considerations aside, the mere thought of sharing grandchildren with that bloodline made me shudder.

Now, you have intimated there is someone at the embassy that has captured your interest. I would appreciate some details, to proceed with our usual practice…"

xxxxxx

Rosemary fought to conceal her surprise at finding Winchester settled in an armchair in her safe house.

"Sorry to startle you, but I don't have your phone number."

"It's unlisted." The simple explanation came quickly off her lips.

"You also have no birth certificate, no social security number, no diploma, no credit rating—"

"You had me investigated !" she feigned indignation.

"It's standard family procedure, when a Winchester becomes—involved .I just never imagined…" His voice trailed off sadly. "You're with 3 T "

She recovered quickly. "The Termination Team? Don't be silly. There is no 3 T—it's just one off those silly spy rumors that get passed around. That would be illegal. And unconstitutional," she parroted.

"—no fingerprints—"

"You're a doctor. You know 2 of the population are born with flat fingers See—"she thrust her hands into his face. "All smooth. So I missed my calling. I should've been a cat burglar."

"Instead, you became a dangerous, high-priced courtesan."

Rosemary slapped his face soundly to avert his cold, steady gaze from her.

"I am a lieutenant colonel serving my country," she declared flatly. "I follow orders. I can save dozens of innocent lives by eliminating one despicable one." Her rationalization faltered. "We're on the same side, Charles," she insisted gently.

"I think not."

"I wanted to meet you, Charles. You. Not because someone handed me a dossier and hinted you were a valuable source of financial, social, political connections. You are, of course," she conceded. "I was on duty that night. But I broke protocol. I engineered our introduction, for myself, even though I knew within hours of meeting you, I was required to lure another man to bed and plug a hole in his miserable heart. When I saw you, so strong, so clean, so confident—I wanted to be clean again, too."

"Why?"

"You want details?" she turned on him. "I sustained a ripped blouse before I managed to stop his squirming. He leaked blood on me and I threw up on him. Hardly my cleanest job, but I survived, and I barely felt anything at all. 'Why you, Charles?' She shook her head slowly. "Maybe it's hormones. Maybe I just wanted to feel something again."

"Rosemary," he looked at her helplessly, stroked her face. "Who are you, really?"

"Who remembers anymore?" she shrugged sadly. "I'm Claudia Griffin. And Maude Rainey. And Liz Cartier. And, well, top gun. Literally."

"That's not enough."

"Then you give me meaning," she pleaded. "Name me, invent me. Write the part you want me to play—"

"Dammit, I don't want you to pretend with me--!"

"Considering my occupation, honesty is problematic, don't you think?"

Frustrated, Charles grabbed her arms and pinned her against the wall with a kiss so intense it sealed their bodies together and left them melted and breathless.

"Wow…" she gasped when she could breathe again.

"Wow, indeed," he panted. "I propose we quarrel more often."

"I cannot disagree with that. Damn diplomacy."

"What's your next…duty?"

She closed her eyes in disappointment. "You know I can't--"

"Not a professional inquiry. Purely personal."

"Not too pure, I hope," she whispered. "I've been ordered back to DC tomorrow."

"After that?"

"We'll probably run into each other, here and there…"she offered vaguely.

"If I need to find you…"

She shook her head. "You can't."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is that a challenge?"

"No, it's just …safer…if I contact you."

"And will you?" His whispered question tickled in her ear. "What is your name?"

"Rosemary," she whispered back, and clung to him. "I'll always be Rosemary for you. For remembrance."

Epilogue-------------

The adagio of the Gayne ballet suite poured out of the Swamp, again, in all its rich, dark melancholy. Outside, Hawkeye hesitated. For all his wild antics, he was sensitive, and observant. And the mood he had observed in his fellow surgeon of late needed to be lanced.

"Charles, "he greeted, emerging from the tent flap. "Nice to have you around the house more often, now that you're not off hobnobbing with the diplomatic corps."

Charles growled, put a finger to his lips, and closed his eyes.

Hawkeye settled on his cot. "Why is that, by the way?" he inquired bluntly.

Heavily, Charles admitted only to himself, that he wanted, he needed to say the words aloud. To someone, anyone. Even Pierce. And since he was handy, and the only one with the courage to ask thus far…"She has her work, as do I. We hope to see each other whenever practicable, and perhaps when the war is over…" his words, like his hope, faded away.

"Yknow, I have this cousin," Hawkeye began. "Real sweet girl. Smart. Great smile. And writes a good -smelling letter..."

"Pierce, the very slenderest of possibilities that we might somehow, someday, become related, is quite enough to caution me to pass on your generous offer."

The only sound in the tent was the violin solo, achingly slow and sweet. Wringing his heart.

Charles cleared his throat. "Ah...perhaps you have a photograph of your cousin?"

finis


End file.
